


Don't Let Her Win

by ozymandias314



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Choking, Death Threats, F/F, POV Second Person, Trans Female Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozymandias314/pseuds/ozymandias314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don’t think about the way Annabelle’s hand wraps around it. Think about the record contract. Think about being prescribed hormones instead of buying them on the black market. Think about Will getting treatment; think about no more dark stags or lost hours. Think of a house in Key West and Will having as many dogs as he wants, which is probably about five thousand. Think about all the girls you know who do this as a job. You only have to do it once. Give thanks. Feel shitty for having to give thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let Her Win

Annabelle texts you the number of a luxurious motel room. You see her game: half courtesy, half a reminder that this is what you’ll have if you don’t fuck up. Remember to take Viagra before you leave; getting soft is not in the game plan.

When you enter the room, Annabelle is lying on the bed, as casually as if she were an unquestioned queen. “Strip,” she orders you.

Take deep breaths. Don’t think about Annabelle or her eyes inspecting you. Don’t think about your breasts (too small) or your hips (too boyish) or your arms (too muscular). Definitely don’t think about it, between your legs. Just focus on the movements: the act of pulling off your shirt, the sound your jeans make when you unzip them, the feeling as you take off your bra and release it from its tuck. Pretend you’re alone, at home, taking off your clothes before your shower.

"You’re so beautiful," Annabelle says, her tone that of a connoisseur, "no one would know you used to be a man."

Catch your recoil before more than a single twitch crosses your face. Annabelle sees it anyway and smirks. Notice that this is what she wants. She doesn’t want sex, not really. She wants power, she wants control; she wants to own you. Be proud. Don’t let her. She owns your body but you can keep your soul free.

"Lie down on the bed," Annabelle says. Do it. Try to decide if it would be more rebellious to move in a masculine way (I am not yours, I will not make myself a sex object for you) or a feminine way (I am a woman, whatever you say). She strokes your skin clinically, a doctor’s touch, not a lover’s. The way she touches your breasts reminds you of the breast exams you had to fight the doctor to have.

Annabelle is clothed. You are naked. This is part of her game too.

Think about something else. The way the light filters through the blinds across the bed. The odd sickly white color the walls are painted. The pattern of the bedspread. Count your breaths. Lose count around 300. Double numbers in your head.

Moan. Both Annabelle and you know it’s a performance.

This is for Will. This is for the band.

"Hormones do wonderful things," Annabelle says, tracing her finger around one stiff nipple. "You know I almost became a doctor? A psychiatrist, actually. In another world you could have gotten your gender dysphoria screening from me."

Wonder what Annabelle would be like as a psychiatrist. Cringe. This one Annabelle notices, and smiles.

Get hard involuntarily. Give thanks. Feel shitty for having to give thanks.

Don’t think about the way Annabelle’s hand wraps around it. Think about the record contract. Think about being prescribed hormones instead of buying them on the black market. Think about Will getting treatment; think about no more dark stags or lost hours. Think of a house in Key West and Will having as many dogs as he wants, which is probably about five thousand. Think about all the girls you know who do this as a job. You only have to do it once. Give thanks. Feel shitty for having to give thanks.

Annabelle is good at this. Your toes curl. You didn’t mean to.

Annabelle lifts up her skirt. She isn’t wearing underwear. “Fuck me,” she says.

Put on the condom left so courteously on the nightstand. Put it inside her. Moan. Both Annabelle and you know it isn’t a performance.

Repeat to yourself, in rhythm with your thrusts, _this is for Will_ and _don’t let her win_. Annabelle groans, biting her lip. Be pleased that you pleased her, and disgusted that you were pleased.

Annabelle rests her hand on your neck. “I could kill you, you know,” she says absently, as if she’s remarking about the weather.

There is a very interesting pattern of water stains on the wall. Wondered what spill or leak created it.

"Nobody knows where you are or who you’re with," she says. "Not that they’d investigate hard. Do you think anyone would care about another dead tranny?"

Concentrate on the sensations building inside you, the feel of it against her vaginal walls, her tightness and wetness and heat. Even dysphoria is better than fear. Don’t think about being dead. Don’t wonder if this— absent and cold— is what death feels like. Don’t wonder if death’s maybe not that bad.

Annabelle’s hand tightens around your neck.

Come.

Collapse. Annabelle removes her hand from your neck and wipes it off on the bedspread as if she was touching something disgusting.

"Same time next week?"

"What?"

Annabelle smiles. “Now, now,” she chides, as if you’re being unreasonable. “You didn’t think you’d get your record contract that easily, did you?”


End file.
